


look like a million dollar man

by rillrill



Series: twilight of the mortals [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Business, Daddy Kink, F/M, Femdom, Genderfuck, Older Man/Younger Woman, Suit Kink, probably not what you're expecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Petyr is not any other man. Petyr knows what he wants, and she knows what Petyr wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	look like a million dollar man

**Author's Note:**

> I literally cannot stay away from this verse, because I'm garbage.

**MILAN, PRESENT DAY**  
  
Sansa would never have stopped in here herself. On another trip, accompanied by another man, perhaps, she might have more or less played it safe, stuck to the boutiques she knows and the silhouettes, the styles, with which she’s familiar. But Petyr is not any other man. Petyr knows what he wants, and she knows what Petyr wants.  
  
It is, in fact, a beautiful little tailor’s shop, in the heart of the cobblestoned shopping district. Petyr rings the bell, and the man who opens the door makes a show of greeting him with affection. Fine suits for men and women, reads the card in the window in both Italian and English, and Sansa cocks a brow. “A new suit?” she asks, and he hums in agreement.  
  
“For both of us, I thought,” he says, and she feels his hand graze the back of her thigh as they step more fully into the shop. She holds her tongue. She’s fine with that.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The trip, so far, has been idyllic, because traveling with Petyr nearly always is. It comes as a surprise nearly every time: he sidles up to her in the Vale office corridors or tells her over dinner, “By the way, I’ve booked us a flight tomorrow. Pack lightly.” She has learned not to ask why. He always has business to attend; she shadows him as much as he allows. The rest of the time, after the first day or two, is theirs and theirs alone. And thus goes Milan. A spate of meetings, not all of which he fills her in on, and then four glorious days on their own.  
  
The first was decadent, the kind of rich dessert of a day that lies heavy on her tongue until she swallows. A spa day, primarily, but one built entirely on their own: she soaked in the clawfoot tub in the suite, filled with lavender and lilac blossoms, until the room filled with steam. Petyr washed her hair in the tub, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his delicate hands massaging her scalp until she moaned; he rubbed scrubs and oils across her body, and finally, pulled her out of the tub and sat her on the counter and ate her out until she’d nearly torn his hair out at the roots. Skin sweat-slicked and heart pounding, she’d let him carry her to bed, and the sex that had followed had been — well, passionate, but normal. She’s wondering, thus, when the inevitable strangeness is due to come in.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Sansa catches snippets of conversation as Petyr and the tailor speak in rapid Italian, and she wonders, briefly, where he might have picked up the language. There is so much about Petyr that she doesn’t yet know, and it makes her the slightest bit uncomfortable, really, that he knows her so deeply in comparison. _The last time I was in Morocco_ , he’ll begin a story, and she’ll wonder how many times he’s been to Morocco, whether that’s something she should know about him — whether it will ever be used against her, now that she knows.  
  
_You’re in love with a criminal,_ bleats the voice in her head every time she tries to rationalize it out. _He’s a criminal, and a fraud, and the SEC will have his ass if the Lannisters don’t get to him for testifying against Cersei first_. But something terrible inside her persists. Something inside her won’t let her walk away.  
  
“You might look good in a nice charcoal,” Petyr says to Sansa, leaning down to brush his lips against her ear. “We’ve got another meeting tomorrow. I thought you might want to look smart for it.”  
  
Sansa smiles placidly, a warm, gentle bluff. “I didn’t look smart yesterday?”  
  
She watches him flush, the memory of the day previous warming him over like the color change of a mood ring. “Of course you did, love,” he tells her, and Sansa touches him softly on the elbow. “But perhaps a different style might be in order.”  
  
She smiles again, this time showing a hint of teeth, and he reciprocates, eyes flitting side to side with what might be nerves or simply arousal. Arousal, she decides, given the way he squeezes down on her forearm as the shopkeeper returns.  
  
The tailor takes her measurements efficiently. He says nothing of her inseam running an inch longer than Petyr’s. Good, she thinks; the Europeans are too reserved to comment on such a subject. Perhaps the men simply run smaller here. If the shopkeeper pretends not to notice, though, Petyr certainly does, and his eyes flick down her long legs in their slim black trousers before he can pretend not to notice.  
  
Sansa, in charcoal wool, impresses even herself. It’s so severe, makes her look so much older than even the tailored office dresses she defaults to during the week, but severe isn’t necessarily a bad thing. White blouse, and Petyr loops a grey tie around her neck. “It’s very Jenna Lyons,” Sansa comments as he instructs her under his breath on how to tie it. “I didn’t think I’d like it, but I do.”  
  
“Oh?” The edges of Petyr’s mouth curl up into a sly smile as his eyes flick up to meet hers. “You do, do you?”  
  
Sansa studies him carefully, keeping her face dutifully straight. “You certainly do,” she observes, and she shifts her weight a half step forward, sliding her thigh in between his and feeling the press of an erection. Petyr opens his mouth to respond, but then Sansa moves her leg so that her thigh rubs against the bulge there, a subtle but intentional motion. Barely there, but just the right amount of pressure.  
  
Petyr flicks his tongue across his dry lips, and Sansa leans in closer to him, feeling a thrill run through her.  
  
“You do like it, don’t you?” she says, just a bit more steely and cool. Taunting him, almost. “Does this turn you on, Petyr? Seeing me dressed just like you?”  
  
His eyes are moving like a trapped animal, but she feels his cock jerk against his thigh, where she’s pressed up against it, and in that moment he breathes a quiet “Yes.” He looks desperate and exposed, even fully clothed out here in the open, and it fills her with an inimitable kind of power.  
  
“That’s what I thought,” Sansa says after a moment, and then she steps away. She sees him flinch, in an odd little way, and then step away.  
  
So that’s a thing, now.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Like all information with which he presents her, she does not take action with it immediately. Let it rest, and wait for the universe to present her with a useful opportunity: in all things, patience. These are the notions Petyr had impressed upon her long ago. Clean hands, darling, and in all things, patience.  
  
So she doesn’t act. It’s always been more interesting to make him wait, anyway. They leave the shop, have their bags delivered to the hotel and go out for another meal. The restaurant is dim and quiet, and the host tucks them into a secluded back corner, where Sansa scans the menu and then allows him to order for the both of them anyway. He knows her tastes; she chooses the wine.  
  
Over the tagliatelle, he brings up the Bolton acquisition, and she nearly chokes. “No,” she says. “I won’t handle that case. Their legal counsel will eat me alive.”  
  
Petyr clicks his tongue. “I think we both know you’re much smarter than Roose’s bastard of a son, my love. That he only found work for his father’s firm is telling —”  
  
“Nepotism or not, I don’t want to embarrass myself, or Vale,” she says, steely but firm. “I get a bad vibe from him. I’ve heard — things.”  
  
“What kind of things?”  
  
Sansa hesitates, grinding her molars. “Word gets around. He’s not just bad news business-wise.” She thinks about Jeyne Poole, who knew Ramsay at Columbia undergrad. She thinks about what Jeyne told her, once, over drinks after a global acquisitions law seminar. Jeyne had sworn her to secrecy, and she does not trust Petyr to keep a stranger’s secrets. “He’s — violent. When he doesn’t get what he wants.”  
  
Petyr gives her an inscrutable look. “I wouldn’t put you in danger.”  
  
“That’s the thing. Ramsay always gets what he wants.” She stuffs her mouth with pasta and chews hastily, but she barely tastes it. “Let senior counsel handle it. I want nothing to do with him.”  
  
Petyr returns to his meal, quiet and thoughtful as he chews. She goes to the bathroom to soak in the tub, when they return to the hotel room, and then straight to bed, leaving him untouched.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The meeting, the following day, is Bolton-related. She wakes early, showers and dresses — puts on the new suit, waits for Petyr to signal for her to follow him to the car. But he doesn’t. Instead, he brushes past, kisses her coolly on the cheek and tells her, “I’ll be back.”  
  
Sansa frowns. “I thought I was to accompany you.”  
  
“Plans have changed,” he says, squeezing her on the wrist. “I’ll explain.”  
  
“You don’t explain,” she says.  
  
He cocks a brow. “You’ve made your decision,” he says. “I thought you made that quite clear. You won’t be tasked with managing the Bolton investment.”  
  
Sansa sets her jaw, watching him leave the hotel room with a coldness to his gait. Standing tall in her grey suit and tie, she feels foolish, upset, and pulls her hair out of the sleek ponytail into which she’d swept it in the bathroom just an hour before. The feeling of relief that sweeps over her is potent, nearly overwhelming — she can’t deny that. Her desire to arbitrate against Ramsay Bolton is less than zero, as is her interest in even looking him in the eye. Yet she can’t help feeling as though she’s let Petyr down, in a way she never intended. That wasn’t the goal. This wasn’t the goal, this feeling of helplessness, stuck up in a hotel room with nothing but emails to answer and educated guesses to make.  
  
On a whim, she takes out a hotel notepad and the engraved Montblanc he’d gifted her nearly a year ago, from where she keeps it stowed carefully in her handbag. In neat, sloping script, across the top of the notepad, she writes:  
  
_\- Bolton HomeSec — home security tech systems_  
\- $500 million valuation 3 years ago, downgraded in this year’s Forbes ranking  
\- Roose Bolton - NOT A GOOD CEO  
\- What is the draw for Vale? Why does Petyr want to invest?  
\- Keeping enemies closer??? Controlling the board???  
\- Replacing Roose as CEO????  
\- Damnit.  
  
She sits up, looking at the notepad as she flips the heavy pen from end to end in her hand. It may not be right at all. Petyr doesn’t often gamble like this, but she can see the game outlined on the board here, drawn like battle plans, and she can visualize it in his own neat, cramped handwriting.  
  
So what of Ramsay, then? Does Petyr plan to replace him as counsel as well? What interest would he have in Sansa handling the arbitration, unless —  
  
Her blood chills as the realization blooms within her. She sees it, too, clear as day: Sansa Stark, chief legal counsel for Bolton HomeSec, wunderkind girl just two years out of law school, steering the ship as Petyr knowingly sinks it. Subterfuge. He wanted to taunt Ramsay, give him a friendly introduction to the woman who would replace him.  
  
He’s a criminal. He’s an untrustworthy man. She would kiss him on the mouth if he were there to receive it.  
  
  
*  
  
  
When he returns, she’s lounging on the couch in their suite, one foot planted on the floor with her heels still on. She fiddles with the ends of her tie, rubbing the silk between her thumb and forefinger, and when the moment is right, she looks up at Petyr from under her brow.  
  
“Hi,” she says quietly, and he drops to the floor.  
  
On hands and knees he makes his way to the couch, and when he’s kneeling there beside her, she reaches out one hand and threads it affectionately through his hair. She feels him shiver, and she smiles. He’s always been so sensitive to these soft touches, so suggestible — she assumes he hasn’t had much of that in his life before now. Her handsome, clever criminal, on his knees beside her, opens his mouth. “You look stunning,” he murmurs, sitting up on his heels, and she sits up as well, spreads her legs wide as she sits upright on the couch and brackets Petyr in his position on the floor.  
  
“Do I,” she says. An observation, not a question. He nods, slowly, smirking up at her.  
  
“I do like seeing you dressed like me,” he answers, and something rushes through Sansa, something good and terrible. “My masterpiece.”  
  
Sansa stiffens her spine, clearing her throat. “I don’t think so,” she says, and he raises an eyebrow. “I’m not your masterpiece. Although, perhaps, if you’re lucky — I may make you mine, Petyr.”  
  
His lips part in a shuddering moan as she says his name, and at the same time, lifts both of his wrists to her, holding them face-up, an offering. “Do what you want,” he says, but she shakes her head.  
  
“Okay,” she says instead, and she takes both wrists in hers, and pulls him up to straddle her lap instead.  
  
The kiss is warm and perfect. Petyr kisses her like a starving man, but his lips are soft and pliant and he opens them obediently when she nips at the lower one. In an instant, his hands are at the sides of her jaw and throat, cupping her face as he deepens the kiss. It’s so funny, she thinks, to see their roles reversed like this; back when they started, he’d pull her into his own lap and kiss her like this whenever he felt like it. They’ve molded each other. Improved each other. She squeezes at his taut thighs through his trousers, and he moans into her mouth.  
  
It’s not hard, in this position, to feel him hardening in his pants; she presses the heel of her hand against his erection and he moans again, wanton and desperate. She swallows the sound with her mouth, and can’t hold back a slight quirk of her lips — hinting at a smile — as she feels him rock against her, grinding down. She indulges him. She holds her hand steady and allows him to grind against her for a brief few moments, before taking it away and pulling his head back by the hair, exposing his throat, pale and vulnerable.  
  
“Please,” he breathes, and she bites at his throat, scrapes teeth over his jugular and feels him shiver beneath her. Sansa chases her teeth with her lips, sucking on the bitten places, until his neck is a mottled mess of red and white that she knows will bruise up nicely. No less than he deserves, she thinks, as she takes a bit of flesh between her teeth and nips hard, feeling him jump.  
  
“Please,” he says again, one hand fisted in her loosened tie, and she draws back, her hand still tight at the root of his salt-and-pepper hair.  
  
“ _Please_ what?” she asks, genuinely uncertain of how he wishes to proceed. She’d follow his suggestion, now, if she knew what he wanted. But he simply licks his lips and stares at her mouth, and in that moment she knows, but isn’t much inclined —  
  
“If you can’t ask for what you want,” Sansa says, low and quiet into his ear, “you’ll have to take what I give you.”  
  
He will; she knows he will, and that’s the thing. That’s the trick in the illusion, the thing that makes her shudder and heat up inside. She kisses him again, slow and teasing this time, and she feels, rather than hears, him moan against her lips, and it sounds like —  
  
“Yes, Daddy —”  
  
Sansa blinks rapidly, pulls away as smoothly as she can to look him in the eyes in utter confusion. Petyr’s gaze is cloudy, his pupils blown as he shifts in her lap in an attempt at friction. “Hm?” she asks, her voice level, and he flushes dark crimson as he seems to realize what he’s just said.  
  
“I didn’t — oh, _God_ , Sansa.” He tips his forehead against hers, eyes sliding shut, but she pulls away again and takes a deep breath. Swallows.  
  
“You’re full of surprises,” she says, warm and low in his ear. “Say it again.”  
  
Because this isn’t — perhaps it isn’t unexpected, him in her lap, her in a tailored grey suit he picked out for her. They’re reenacting the earliest days of their courtship, she realizes, rewinding with the roles reversed, and even though she hasn’t called him that in months, he can’t have forgotten. He wouldn’t have forgotten.  
  
It all clicks, in this moment, exactly what he wanted from this scenario, and she feels her cunt throb with want as she pieces it all together.  
  
“Say it again,” Sansa repeats, grabbing him by the chin, her voice low and cold this time, doing her best to affect his low mid-Atlantic gloss in her own way, and his face grows even warmer under her hand.  
  
Petyr shifts in her lap again, swallows and murmurs, “Yes, Daddy.”  
  
“ _God_.” She takes a deep breath, feeling a little dizzy with it. “What do you want, Petyr? You want to rub yourself off on my leg, here, and ruin your suit?”  
  
She grips his chin harder, and on a whim, forcibly moves his head side to side as he murmurs, “No. Not like this.”  
  
“Then what?” She bites at his jaw, his neck, an untouched place just beneath his collar as she tugs at the knot of his own tie, undoing it one-handed. “My hand? My mouth? What about your mouth, Petyr?”  
  
“What about it?” His eyes slit shut, he grinds against her thigh again, and she digs her fingers into his jawline as she directs his gaze back down to meet hers.  
  
“Why don’t you get down on the floor,” she murmurs, scarcely believing the words she’s saying, so inappropriate and yet so right for the moment, so right to control him, “down on your knees, and lick Daddy’s cunt?”  
  
It happens in an instant. Petyr tumbles to the floor, slides off her lap and back down to his knees, and fumbles with the button on her trousers, pulling them and her simple lace underwear off in one smooth go. Sansa feels her own face go red with warmth as he grips her thighs, pulling her legs apart and bracing them over his shoulders. Gentle kisses to her inner thighs, first the right and then the left, long and lingering to build the heat inside her, as ever. God, he’s terrible, but he’s good at this. She can’t trust him with anything, but she’d trust him with her life here in this moment as he traces the tip of his tongue softly along the very edges of her cunt. Along the edge, then swiping more firmly along the center and finally pressing his tongue inside —  
  
“So eager,” she hears herself mutter as he hooks his hands underneath her and brings her right to his mouth. And then he closes his mouth over her core and _applies_ himself to the task, like he does with any other: singular focus and incredible attention to detail. Eager, yes, _eager_ is the word, but so is _hungry_ , so is _overwhelming_. He’s every word in the thesaurus of want, a hurricane of desire there between her legs. She feels as though she could make out every ridge in his fingerprints as he holds her legs even more tightly, keeping her there at his mouth as he devours her.  
  
She comes, rather quickly, with a silent shudder, and extricates herself from his grasp as he tries, ever eager, to keep going. Chastened, he sits back on his heels, and looks up at her with his lips shiny and swollen.  
  
She wants to fuck him. God, she wants to fuck him. Sansa is suddenly more than hyperaware of her state of undress, the odd imbalance of it — her jacket, blouse and tie still on, but bare from the waist down — and she makes short work of her jacket, at least, and undoes her tie enough to open her blouse to mid-chest. Petyr is watching her, still fully dressed, licking his lips and biding his time. She coughs, bringing his attention back up to her eyes, and pats the couch beside her. He scrambles up, immediately, sitting and staying. Sansa rests her hand on the bulge in his trousers and gives it a firm squeeze, and he moans. Good. As he should.  
  
She tries to think of how best to do this, and settles on unbuttoning his trousers there, straddling him and getting his cock out in her hand. “Oh, Petyr,” she says flatly, kissing his jaw, then the side of his mouth. “You want to get fucked, don’t you? You want Daddy to fuck you, right here on the couch?”  
  
He nods, his eyes glazed, his mouth going slack as she strokes him. “Please,” he murmurs, and Sansa huffs a laugh.  
  
“Tell me pretty,” she says, tipping his chin up with two fingers again, forcing his gaze back up to meet hers. “Tell me how you want to get fucked.”  
  
It’s vulgar and unladylike, and nothing like the way she was when they started, tentative and seductive, all eyelashes and coy glances over her shoulder. But then, she’s a different person now, too. Harder. Hardened. A diamond, really, gleaming and cold. Sansa is no one if not adaptable, and, she thinks, a quick study — if this is what he craves, if this is how to undo him, she’ll do it.  
  
_How you want to get fucked_ , she says, as if she were the one inside him. She considers it, briefly. He’d probably like that, too. Filthy man.  
  
“God, Sansa, just — ride me, please,” Petyr says, voice low and breaking, and Sansa brushes her wet heat over his cock. Teases, but doesn’t allow him to slip inside just yet. “Please —”  
  
“Who do you want to fuck you?” she says against his ear, resting her cunt against the head, a solid presence but no movement. “Tell me who you—”  
  
“I — _Daddy_ ,” Petyr says, and she can see the shame coloring his face, and she smiles as she finally, finally slips him inside her. And then the look goes from one of shame to one of ecstasy, and Sansa closes her eyes, sliding down upon him and allowing herself simply to _feel._  
  
He’s got one hand on her back and the other clutching her tie as she grinds down on him, hitting his pubic bone with every stroke — his lips are parted, she can taste herself on his breath as he exhales against every gasp she takes. Digs her fingers into his shoulders and braces herself as she rides him, first slow and sensual and then, harder — much harder.  
  
“My good boy,” she says, low and warm like whiskey in the back of her throat as she rides him. “So good, aren’t you? Such a clever one—”  
  
“Good God,” he chokes, and she slams herself down on him harder, clenching around him again and again, feeling his own hips snap up to meet hers in a perfect rhythm.  
  
“Come inside me,” she hisses, “go ahead, come inside your Daddy, you’ve been so—”  
  
She hasn’t planned out the sentences she speaks, doesn’t quite know how to finish, and so it’s better for the both of them that he does, just then. Presses his splayed fingers into the flesh of her back through her shirt, gasps and groans before biting down on the silk of her tie —  
  
— Sansa gasps as well, clenches around him one final time —  
  
— finishes with him, chests heaving in unison —  
  
— and then falls down upon him as he collapses back against the couch, holding her tightly, letting her hold on as they both come down from it.  
  
Sansa tips her forehead down against his own white shirt, dabbing the sweat from her brow there on the shoulder. As he softens, he slips out of her, and she can feel his release inside her there — she reaches down with two delicate fingers, runs them between her lips and then holds them up to his mouth. He accepts them eagerly, greedy, sucking them clean and letting her trace the outline of his kiss-bitten lower lip.  
  
“Are you going to make the shareholders vote to replace Roose as CEO of Bolton?” she asks, blunt and thoughtless with her head muzzy and faded with orgasm. She feels Petyr chuff with laughter beneath her, and she pulls away, sitting up to look him in the eye.  
  
“Was it really such an obvious tactic?” he asks, and she shakes her head.  
  
“Not to anyone else. Only to me.”  
  
“Of course. Clever girl.” He traces her own lips with the pad of his thumb. “Woman, rather, clever woman. Yes. That was, in a sense, part of my initial plan.”  
  
“Part of it,” Sansa repeats as she slides off him, undoing her tie and tossing it at him as she walks toward the suite bathroom. “And the rest?”  
  
Petyr laughs. “You’ll see.”  
  
She leaves the door open, lets him watch her undress as she runs the shower. Better to let the steam into the rest of the hotel room, anyway.

"How do you feel about the West Coast?” he asks, and it takes her a moment to answer.  
  
“Of the United States?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
She blinks over her shoulder, where she's about to step into the tub. “Do I have a choice?”  
  
He laughs, and quirks an eyebrow. “A change might be nice. For safety’s sake.”  
  
“Does that mean we're no longer safe in the city?”  
  
He doesn’t answer, only shakes his head, taut and brief.  
  
“Then I suppose I don’t have a choice.”


End file.
